Treasure of the Heart Read online

  “Don’t get her started, mate,” Jake advised. “Issie’s been obsessed with this story since she was a kid. I can’t remember how many times Granny Alice had to tell it, or,” he grinned at Issie, “how many nightmares she then had about it.”

  “I did not!” Issie said.

  “She did too,” Mo told him. “She screamed the place down. I should know – I had to share a bedroom with her and it drove me mad.”

  “You scream the place down too sometimes,” Ashley remarked softly, his dark eyes glittering as they swept over his wife. “I don’t think it’s because you’re scared though.”

  Mo walloped him on the arm and Issie could see that she was blushing, even beneath her green face paint. “Ashley! Stop it!”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense: tell me all about this Black Jack character,” begged Caspar. “I love all the legends and myths here! I never need to go far for a plot.”

  Issie’s fingers curled around the coin; the metal felt warm and curiously alive from the heat of her skin.

  “Black Jack Jago was an ancestor of Granny Alice and a wrecker,” she said, repeating the familiar words that her grandmother must have told her a thousand times. “His heart was as black as the dark nights when he and his henchmen would lure ships onto the rocks. Once the ships had foundered the wreckers would wait for the cargo to wash up on the shore – after they’d finished with any survivors, that is.”

  “Ah. A bad Ross Poldark type. Excellent,” said Caspar, whipping out a notebook from his flowing black cloak and scribbling something down. His eyes were bright with excitement and the reflected glow of the log fire. “I love it. Go on.”

  “Careful, he’s going to pinch your story! Make him give you the copyright on this, or at least a cut of the royalties,” Tara Tremaine teased.

  Issie shrugged. “It’s not my story. It’s all history anyway. There are tonnes of documents about it all.”

  “And Issie would know; she studied history at uni,” Jake told Caspar.

  Issie downed her drink. “Until I quit.” There. She’d say it for him. Save them all a job. Issie Tremaine, disappointment and screw-up. The family member who’d won a place at the prestigious University of Westchester, and then thrown it all away to fester back in the village. Bar work. Seasonal shifts. Living back with her gran. That was her. Issie Tremaine. Failure.

  “There’s plenty of time to pick that up again if you want to,” said Jake gently.

  Issie raised her chin. “No thanks. I’m never going back to Westchester.”

  There was an awkward pause. The currents flowing between the family members were every bit as dark and dangerous as those that swirled around the rocks beyond the bay. If she got caught up in them Issie knew she’d drown for sure. There was no way she wanted to talk about what had really happened at university. She was far too hurt and ashamed to tell anyone the truth. It was better that her family just thought she was a flake.

  “Anyway,” Issie said, trying to steer the conversation away from all that, “there was a Spanish treasure ship called the Isabella that was carrying gold coins and maybe jewels as well.”

  Sensing Issie’s discomfort, Mo picked up the narrative. “Legend has it that the treasure was cursed. The ship was blown off course and her captain headed to Plymouth to shelter. That was the last anyone heard of it. The story goes that Black Jack wrecked Isabella somewhere off Polwenna Bay, hid the treasure in a cave and then made his way home through the smugglers’ secret passage.”

  “A cave? Like the beach cave? The one near Davey’s Locker?” asked Caspar, making even more notes.

  “That’s the one,” nodded Mo. “It’s utter rubbish, of course. Can you think of a more obvious hiding place?”

  “The cave itself wouldn’t have been the hiding place, though. That secret passage you mentioned runs under quite a lot of the village, or so I’ve been told,” said Summer. “My dad says the smugglers used it all the time.”

  “Yes, I think it’s the same secret passage that Jonny St Milton said he went through as a boy,” Issie agreed. “It’s blocked now, though.”

  “Or else it never existed,” Jake winked.

  “Jonny St Milton?” said Caspar. “The elderly gentleman who owns the hotel?”

  “That’s the one. Teddy’s grandfather,” Mo replied. “He’s lived here forever and his family used to be big landowners.”

  Caspar’s fountain pen hovered over his notebook. “So what happened to this Black Jack Jago?”

  Summer took up the tale. “The story goes that he was returning to the cave through the passage when the curse of the treasure struck and the tunnel collapsed.”

  “And that was the end of him,” Jake concluded, smiling at her. “Black Jack Jago was never seen again, and neither was his loot. The wreck was never found either – but they say that on a stormy night the galleon can be seen out at sea, and that Black Jack’s ghost haunts the cave, guarding his ill-gotten gains.”

  “And the necklace?” demanded the author. His eyes were glued to the coin around Issie’s neck. “What’s the story there?”

  “This is just a family myth, so don’t take it too seriously, no matter what my little sister would have you believe,” Jake laughed. “The legend goes that although Black Jack was never seen again, a handful of gold coins mysteriously appeared in the family home on the night he vanished. Over the years they’ve been spent, but allegedly we still have one left as a necklace, which Granny inherited. That’s what Issie’s wearing. I can’t imagine it’s worth much, though. I doubt it’s all that rare.”

  “It wouldn’t be, would it, if there were thousands of them in a treasure chest!” Issie snapped, feeling protective of her necklace. She hated it when Jake dismissed the family legend. Issie was convinced there was truth in the old tale. Quite how she would ever prove this she wasn’t yet sure, but she was determined that one day she’d find a way.

  And then let Jake and Mo tease her!

  “True or not, it’s a great tale. I love the idea of secret passages under the village,” Caspar was saying thoughtfully as he tucked his notebook away. “I can really picture the shadowy streets and the smugglers spiriting the contraband away. With the rocky coast and the caves, Polwenna Bay must have been perfect for them.”

  “It hasn’t really changed much over the centuries,” Dr Richard Penwarren said. “I bet a whole lot more goes on around here today than we’ll ever know.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Like the gardening up on the cliff allotments, you mean?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that, but when I’ve been out late on call I’ve seen the lights of boats that seem very close to the shore, far too close to be our local trawlers. If you want novel fodder, Caspar, you should walk up on the cliff path at two in the morning.”

  “Talking of walks, where shall we head to tomorrow?” Summer asked Jake. “I quite fancied a walk to the next bay. After all Alice’s cooking, I need to burn a few calories.”

  Issie tuned out at this point. There was no way she was setting off on a New Year’s Day route march over the cliffs. No, she decided as she finished her cider and joined the now five-deep queue at the bar, tomorrow was going to be spent in bed nursing a huge hangover. In fact, if she didn’t even see New Year’s Day then that would suit her just fine.

  Issie was trying to catch Adam’s eye, the bar digging into her hip and her head wedged into the armpit of someone dressed as Iron Man, when the vibration of her mobile tucked deep into the bodice of her costume announced the arrival of a text.

  “I can help you with that,” offered Barney Rubble, peering hopefully over her shoulder as Issie delved for her phone beneath the Wonderbra padding.

  “In your dreams, Little Rog,” said Issie mildly, turning her back on him and pulling out the phone.

  “Can I buy you a drink then?” he asked, ever the optimist.

  Ignoring him and concerning herself with her phone instead, Issie felt her heart thrill at the sight of a fa
miliar number on the screen. And then reality rushed in, as cold and as unstoppable as the icy waves that crashed against the harbour wall. Not trusting herself to read the message, Issie deleted it with a trembling finger. But it was too late; the damage was already done. There was no way she could undo this sudden and unexpected knowledge.

  Dr Mark Tollen was thinking about her on New Year’s Eve. On the very night when the past should be left behind and new starts should be made, he was sitting in his study with a glass of whiskey held loosely in those long fingers, and remembering all that they’d once been to one another. Right or wrong didn’t come into it as far as the heart was concerned; what mattered was that she was still in his thoughts all this time later, just as he was in hers.

  Maybe it would always be this way?

  Issie couldn’t bear it. The heat and the noise were suddenly pressing down on her with such weight she thought she would pass out, and there was a rushing in her ears as loud and relentless as the tide.

  There was only one thing for it.

  “Do you know what?” she said, turning to Little Rog and treating him to a high-beam smile. “I think I will have that drink after all.”

  Chapter 2

  Alice Tremaine was having a quiet New Year’s Eve at home, or as quiet a New Year’s Eve as was possible after a day spent at Seaspray with her grandchildren and their partners. They’d all been working on their fancy dress for the evening, and had needed endless last-minute adjustments. A veteran of many such thirty-firsts of December, Alice had retrieved her elderly hand-powered sewing machine from its semi-retirement under the stairs and, with a mouth full of pins, had spent several busy hours altering old costumes and helping create new ones. She’d lost count of how many times she’d done this over the years. It was a tradition that went back to the days when she and her husband Henry had celebrated in the village – and then she’d helped her son Jimmy with his New Year outfits, before turning her hand to sorting out costumes for his children. Goodness, how was it possible that so many decades could have flown by in a heartbeat?

  By the time eight o’clock arrived and the house was finally empty, Alice was shattered. So far today, she’d made a frilly pirate shirt for Nick, dyed some shorts and a swimsuit red for Richard and Tara, turned a moth-eaten war-time blackout curtain into a cloak for Ashley, and persuaded Issie that her dress needed some extra lace around the bodice if she didn’t want to run the risk of giving Eddie Penhalligan another heart attack. In between all this, she’d made a stew, done two loads of washing, walked Mo’s terrier Cracker, and done some cyber-stalking around her son’s Facebook page in the vain hope that she might discover the identity of Jimmy’s secret woman. Her search had drawn a blank: Jimmy had either done an extremely good job of erasing his virtual footsteps (unlikely) or there wasn’t a woman at all (even more unlikely, if she knew her son). Perhaps the mystery American wasn’t on Facebook?

  After shutting the laptop lid with a frustrated thud, Alice had then walked down to the village shop to buy more milk and extra potatoes, in case there might be unexpected dinner guests, before trudging back up the cliff path to the house to finish the supper and serve it up to everyone. She was probably making far more work for herself than was strictly necessary, Alice had reflected while ladling stew and dumplings into bowls. Jake was forever telling her to take it easy and that they were all big enough and ugly enough to sort themselves out, but Alice could no more sit back than she could fly to Mars. Looking after her son’s brood was second nature after twenty years – and besides, experience had taught Alice that it generally paid off to line the youngsters’ stomachs before they headed to the pub for a night of heavy-duty partying.

  Now, as she sat at the table in Seaspray’s kitchen with a cup of tea and the celebrations from London playing on the television, Alice’s eyes were growing heavy. She wondered whether Jake had a point. Alice was so tired that she wasn’t sure whether she would even stay awake long enough to hear Big Ben chime in another year. What would the next one hold anyway, that would merit waiting up to celebrate its arrival? She sighed and sipped her tea. It would be just another year without her Henry, and twelve more months of the aches and pains that were starting to make the daily climb back up the cliff path an ordeal rather than a pleasure. And no doubt it would be full of even more worry about her family. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Oh, snap out of it, you silly old fool,” Alice scolded herself impatiently. She should count her blessings. Wasn’t that what Jules, their vicar, would say? After all, Alice might be nearly eighty but she was still as sharp as she always was, and for that she was glad. It was just that recently her body couldn’t quite keep up with her mind – something that always came as a shock, just as looking in the mirror sometimes caught her out too. That old woman with long grey hair and a lined face bore no resemblance to the Alice she saw in her thoughts.

  Maybe this was the curse of growing old: to remain forever sixteen in your head, while the passing years and unforgiving looking-glasses told another story.

  “And here I go again, being daft,” Alice said to Cracker, who thudded his tail in agreement from his place by the Aga. “And I’m talking to a dog, not to myself,” she added, just in case clarity was required here. There were plenty of good things to look forward to and be thankful for. Her health for one and her family for another. Yes, her grandchildren might drive her to distraction, and most days she lived in fear that Jimmy would place all the family savings on a “dead cert” horse, but Seaspray was always full of life and laughter, which was exactly how it should be. Being alone on New Year’s Eve was only to be expected at her age, and it was hardly surprising that sitting here by herself at the close of another year made her reflective.

  “Get a grip, Alice Tremaine,” she told herself sharply. “Just be thankful you didn’t let Issie talk you into dressing up and joining them! Then you’d be wishing you were here in the peace and quiet rather than stuck in a crowded pub.”

  It was five to midnight now. On the television screen, scenes of excited crowds along the Thames radiated excitement as the countdown grew closer. Alice glanced across the kitchen and out over the village, where she could just make out the lights of the pub pooling into the trembling waters of the harbour. Inside it would be hot; revellers would be pressed shoulder to shoulder as they jostled their way to the bar to buy drinks for toasting the New Year in. Meanwhile, on the village green crowds would be gathering around the Christmas tree, linking arms and singing Auld Lang Syne. Alice didn’t need to be down there now to picture the scene: all she had to do was close her eyes. After all, hadn’t she spent many such evenings there herself? All things had their time, and hers had long since passed. It was only right that her son and his family were out enjoying themselves while she took things easy at home, listened to the ticking of the clock and sipped her tea.

  Logical arguments aside, there was also a huge part of Alice wishing she were in the village and joining in the revelry, even if it was just to keep an eye on her wayward son and her grandchildren. Of course, Jake and Mo were old enough to look after themselves, Symon would be busy working in his restaurant and Danny was looking after his son, so Alice was confident these were all fine.

  Her musings then turned to Zak. Just thinking about this middle grandchild, with his fallen-angel looks and more than his fair share of his father’s charm, was enough to make Alice smile. Zak was like sunshine on a grey day; no matter what he got up to, he did it with such sweetness that everyone instantly forgave him anything. He was still abroad at the moment, ostensibly recording an album, and hopefully keeping out of trouble.

  But then came thoughts of Nick and Issie. The idea of those two on the loose in the village worried Alice terribly. The twins were so wild and never seemed to think about the consequences of anything they did. Just look at Nick’s behaviour this year, constantly going to sea hung-over and almost losing his crewing position. And Issie had so carelessly abandoned her place at Westchester University, onl
y to come back to the village and a series of dead-end jobs. Yes, when it came to her two youngest grandchildren, Alice was in despair. They played and drank far too hard, and she had no idea why. Her anxiety that maybe this was down to something she’d done wrong was enough to make Alice reach for the dregs of the Christmas sherry.

  If I had one New Year’s Eve wish, Alice reflected as Big Ben began to chime and woolly-hatted Londoners counted down with huge excitement, it would be that Issie and Nick would have a happy year this time. There was nothing Alice wanted so much as to see them both settled. Who knew how much longer she might be around to look out for them?

  “We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,” Alice quoted aloud. Wasn’t it funny? Those lines from Tennyson were as fresh in her memory as the day she’d learned them a lifetime ago, sitting on a hard wooden bench in the old primary school, with the fear of an equally hard schoolmistress etching them into her nine-year-old’s mind. And yet some days she had trouble recalling what she’d eaten for lunch – although that could well be because she was usually so busy that sometimes she didn’t even stop to eat.

  Telling herself that she was being ridiculous, Alice was busy filling the kettle for another restorative cup of tea when a sharp rap on the front door made her jump. Who on earth would be knocking on Seaspray’s door at midnight? Apart from the fact that everyone she knew would either be celebrating or tucked up in bed, Seaspray was a steep climb up the cliff path. People didn’t tend to just drop by. Whoever was knocking must really want to see her. Intrigued, she opened the door.

  “I’m here for the first footing,” announced Jonny St Milton – or at any rate, Alice thought that was what he said. He was wheezing and gasping so much that she could hardly hear him. Beneath his jaunty tweed cap his face was the same hue as his snow-white hair, and he was doubled over clutching his side.

  “You didn’t walk up here just for that daft tradition did you?” Alice asked, taking him by the arm and guiding him out of the sharp, frosty air into the warmth of the kitchen. “Jonny St Milton, you silly old fool. Whatever were you thinking?”